Biffinator
Norm Smith Medallist
- Joined
- Dec 8, 2007
- Posts
- 5,053
- Reaction score
- 4,570
- Location
- Bunyip, Gippsland
- AFL Club
- Melbourne
- Other Teams
- The Exers
“Biff, sorry to ring you but we’ve got a real mystery on our hands and our best detectives cannot solve it!”
“Really?” I replied to the copper down at the Berwick police-station.
“Well, someone has been breaking into the local supermarkets at night-time – it looks like they are using their beer-gut or lard-arse as the battering ram – but all they’re taking are boxes of fish-fingers! They’re not interested in the cash, the ciggies or whatever: just the fish-fingers! Birdseye seems to be the go. Whoever it is, they sometimes nab a bottle of mayo on the way out – the creamy high-fat stuff!”
I screwed up my face.
“Look, I know that many a bogan lives out in Berwick, especially in Nazza Warren South where Corey the Party Animal dwells, but even by their lowly standards that’s bizarre behaviour!”
“Yes indeed. But that’s not all. They’re leaving a clue behind in each instance: five, ten and twenty cent pieces. We’ve counted them up at each robbery scene: it always amounts to thirty pieces of silver. Not one more, not one less!”
“So this is what we have: a Fish Finger bandit and thirty pieces of silver. I wonder who it could be . . . . .”
Not wanting to disappoint the boys-in-blue, I rustled up some of my mates from the MFC Board: the ever-reliable Wonna 33 who manned our electronic hub back at base (and man, he is a gun at hacking into security systems); Syrus and his brother; Striker 475 and Captain Jack.
“Guys,” I said in way of a brief, “make no mistake: we’re looking for low-lives here. Someone who is greedy, deceitful and disgusting. There might be two of them.”
“Biff, said Wonna, “it’s is 31 past the hour. Let’s scull a drink and then you should hit the road!”
We spend the rest of the day checking out the usual haunts in Berwick and Nazza Warren South: the video-shops; donut-vans; Red Rooters; KFCs and the skate-park. All the while I was thinking to myself: I had better find these guys before Syrus’ brother or else there is gonna be a bloodbath ! Our surveillance was fruitless. While the bogan-o-meter was going off constantly, none of the buggers matched the profile of the suspects. We were about to throw in the towel when I got a call from Wonna.
“Biff, get your arse over to the Harris Scarf at Fountaingate. There’s a barge-arse in there who has been a’spalshing the cash and ‘living the high life’ at that luxurious department store. Earlier on, he broke the bank so to speak at the takeway fish and chips in the eating-area – I was watching him via the security-cameras. He’s with some sort of runty little guy – it could be his son. The latter looks pale and scared and a shirker to boot. He never looks people in the eye – and I reckon he’s told a porky or two over his lifetime. These clowns could be our quarry!”
We somehow piled into Striker’s Mercedes AMG SL 65 and barrelled over to Fountaingate. Sure Berwick was full of bogans but this was the hornets’ nest.
“Guys,” Wonna whispered via our earpieces as we pushed our way indoor, “they have just left Harris Scarfe. They’ve loaded up on crap – each of them has got four or five shopping bags in each hand. Where did they get this ill-begotten loot? And haven’t they got more taste than to spend it on Harris Scarfe? I reckon they’re heading back to that eatery in the hope that its poor owner has reloaded the grub!”
“This could get ugly,” Captain Jack said to us all. “The suspect has got a barge-arse, howitzer-style, and he clearly knows how to use it. How do we tackle the bugger?”
“Mate, we have got a secret weapon,” I replied, pointing at Syrus’ brother who was one tough hombre. “The blubbier they are, the bigger they fall.”
Weaving our way between the bogan princesses, we strode down the arcade and turned left into the main eating-area. Our quarries were in range. Sure enough, they were standing at the register; the runty guy was shovelling food onto a plate while fatty was splashing his cash for all to see.
“Stand where you are,” Striker shouted. “And reach for the skies! You’re under arrest. Anything you say or do can be held against you in a court of law. Fatty, I am arresting you under the powers granted to me under the Human Zeppelin Act, 2004. Now come along quietly!”
As if sensing the game was up, the runty guy slowly turned around to face us.
“Hang on,” Syrus growled. “You’re that disgusting, deceitful, merc who plays for the . . . . .”
“Quick son,” the fat guy gargled through a mouthful of fish fingers, “make a run for it. I will meet you back at the VN Commodore!”
This advice was heeded with alacrity. There was little we could do to stop the filthy little excrement as he took off like a whippet. Nor did we fully see his face. But there was a more pressing danger: the fat guy let fly with his barge-arse and Syrus’ brother felt the full force of the impact: he was sent flying over the hoard of shoppers like a cricket ball. Captain Jack attempted to intervene but he was copped the same summary fashion. I traded a glance with Syrus: this was an enemy beyond our strength - and the fish-fingers hanging from his mouth looked like orange fangs. Before we could decide our next move, Fatty decided it for us: he charged and we bolted in response. Thankfully the bogans covered our retreat. Ten minutes later, we retraced our steps and rescued Syrus’ brother and Captain Jack. The suspects had vanished.
I have described them as best as I can. In the interests of the fish-finger industry, if anyone comes to mind, please let me know.
“Really?” I replied to the copper down at the Berwick police-station.
“Well, someone has been breaking into the local supermarkets at night-time – it looks like they are using their beer-gut or lard-arse as the battering ram – but all they’re taking are boxes of fish-fingers! They’re not interested in the cash, the ciggies or whatever: just the fish-fingers! Birdseye seems to be the go. Whoever it is, they sometimes nab a bottle of mayo on the way out – the creamy high-fat stuff!”
I screwed up my face.
“Look, I know that many a bogan lives out in Berwick, especially in Nazza Warren South where Corey the Party Animal dwells, but even by their lowly standards that’s bizarre behaviour!”
“Yes indeed. But that’s not all. They’re leaving a clue behind in each instance: five, ten and twenty cent pieces. We’ve counted them up at each robbery scene: it always amounts to thirty pieces of silver. Not one more, not one less!”
“So this is what we have: a Fish Finger bandit and thirty pieces of silver. I wonder who it could be . . . . .”
Not wanting to disappoint the boys-in-blue, I rustled up some of my mates from the MFC Board: the ever-reliable Wonna 33 who manned our electronic hub back at base (and man, he is a gun at hacking into security systems); Syrus and his brother; Striker 475 and Captain Jack.
“Guys,” I said in way of a brief, “make no mistake: we’re looking for low-lives here. Someone who is greedy, deceitful and disgusting. There might be two of them.”
“Biff, said Wonna, “it’s is 31 past the hour. Let’s scull a drink and then you should hit the road!”
We spend the rest of the day checking out the usual haunts in Berwick and Nazza Warren South: the video-shops; donut-vans; Red Rooters; KFCs and the skate-park. All the while I was thinking to myself: I had better find these guys before Syrus’ brother or else there is gonna be a bloodbath ! Our surveillance was fruitless. While the bogan-o-meter was going off constantly, none of the buggers matched the profile of the suspects. We were about to throw in the towel when I got a call from Wonna.
“Biff, get your arse over to the Harris Scarf at Fountaingate. There’s a barge-arse in there who has been a’spalshing the cash and ‘living the high life’ at that luxurious department store. Earlier on, he broke the bank so to speak at the takeway fish and chips in the eating-area – I was watching him via the security-cameras. He’s with some sort of runty little guy – it could be his son. The latter looks pale and scared and a shirker to boot. He never looks people in the eye – and I reckon he’s told a porky or two over his lifetime. These clowns could be our quarry!”
We somehow piled into Striker’s Mercedes AMG SL 65 and barrelled over to Fountaingate. Sure Berwick was full of bogans but this was the hornets’ nest.
“Guys,” Wonna whispered via our earpieces as we pushed our way indoor, “they have just left Harris Scarfe. They’ve loaded up on crap – each of them has got four or five shopping bags in each hand. Where did they get this ill-begotten loot? And haven’t they got more taste than to spend it on Harris Scarfe? I reckon they’re heading back to that eatery in the hope that its poor owner has reloaded the grub!”
“This could get ugly,” Captain Jack said to us all. “The suspect has got a barge-arse, howitzer-style, and he clearly knows how to use it. How do we tackle the bugger?”
“Mate, we have got a secret weapon,” I replied, pointing at Syrus’ brother who was one tough hombre. “The blubbier they are, the bigger they fall.”
Weaving our way between the bogan princesses, we strode down the arcade and turned left into the main eating-area. Our quarries were in range. Sure enough, they were standing at the register; the runty guy was shovelling food onto a plate while fatty was splashing his cash for all to see.
“Stand where you are,” Striker shouted. “And reach for the skies! You’re under arrest. Anything you say or do can be held against you in a court of law. Fatty, I am arresting you under the powers granted to me under the Human Zeppelin Act, 2004. Now come along quietly!”
As if sensing the game was up, the runty guy slowly turned around to face us.
“Hang on,” Syrus growled. “You’re that disgusting, deceitful, merc who plays for the . . . . .”
“Quick son,” the fat guy gargled through a mouthful of fish fingers, “make a run for it. I will meet you back at the VN Commodore!”
This advice was heeded with alacrity. There was little we could do to stop the filthy little excrement as he took off like a whippet. Nor did we fully see his face. But there was a more pressing danger: the fat guy let fly with his barge-arse and Syrus’ brother felt the full force of the impact: he was sent flying over the hoard of shoppers like a cricket ball. Captain Jack attempted to intervene but he was copped the same summary fashion. I traded a glance with Syrus: this was an enemy beyond our strength - and the fish-fingers hanging from his mouth looked like orange fangs. Before we could decide our next move, Fatty decided it for us: he charged and we bolted in response. Thankfully the bogans covered our retreat. Ten minutes later, we retraced our steps and rescued Syrus’ brother and Captain Jack. The suspects had vanished.
I have described them as best as I can. In the interests of the fish-finger industry, if anyone comes to mind, please let me know.
